Hunting Lessons
by octoberland
Summary: Daryl and Carol share a moment in the watchtower. For now a one-shot but if people like it I will continue it.


**A/N: Hi. Um, so this is my first ever Walking Dead fic. It's Caryl. I wrote it for a contest on Tumblr and I "think" it's okay for us to post our stories. I hope. For now it's a one-shot, just a little scene really between Daryl and Carol. We were supposed to incorporate certain elements into the story but I won't bore you with those details unless you really want them. I'm rating it T for language and the general fact that it's a world filled with zombies and death and whatnot. If people like this then I'm more than happy to continue it. Just let me know. If you haven't seen the show at all please be aware that this story does mention the death of certain characters.**

**I own nothing. Pre-read by my awesome friend DianaWolfskill. Reviews would be greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading.**

**And Melissa McBride, if you happen to read this (supposedly she reads some of our fic?) I dedicate this to you and your character. You're awesome and beautiful and I love watching Carol become her own woman. Thank you for doing such a great job and for just being you!**

Daryl climbed the steps to the watchtower. It was dusk, evening was settling in and the air was thick with bugs and heat, the treetops turned to flame; orange, red and gold in the light of the setting sun. His crossbow was slung casually over one shoulder, his hair matted to his scalp with sweat and a week's worth of grime. The air carried with it the pungent smell of the dead, a kind of cloying sweetness that turned sour when it hit your tongue. Even after all this time it was something he still hadn't quite gotten used to.

He was heading up to relieve Carol. Meek little Carol: mother, widow, warrior. Not so weak after all. Just quiet; and stubborn as any mule he'd ever seen. Not that he'd seen many but he could imagine.

She'd taken the day shift, and now it was his turn, his time to watch the night and all the things that skulked around in it.

When he turned the corner at the top of the stairs he found Carol bent over a small shoebox, rummaging through it.

"What's that?" he asked. It came out kind of garbled because of the toothbrush he was chewing on. He'd run out of cigarettes and needed something to keep his mouth and hands busy.

Carol looked up and giggled at the sight of him chewing on it.

"What?" he asked, as he pulled the brush out of his mouth.

Carol could hear the annoyance in his voice. She learned long ago that that brusque tone meant _leave it alone_. Daryl never did like being scrutinized.

She returned her attention to the box. "I found this tucked away under there," she said, nodding towards a toppled chair in the corner.

She looked kind of sad as she pulled out the contents. There was a purple scarf, a deck of playing cards, a rubber duck, a pencil with the eraser chewed off, and a few other odds and ends like some jacks but no marbles and what looked like an old piece of putty or clay. The beat up old box and its contents made her think of Sophia. Her beautiful Sophia. Her dead Sophia.

Sophia used to carry around a little plastic lunchbox with purple and pink hearts painted on it. She'd called it her dream box and said no one but her was ever allowed to look inside but of course Carol had. There'd been seashells and bottle caps and loose crayons. Some shiny rocks and costume jewelry from the thrift store, and a trading card with a cartoon princess on it.

She thought for a moment and then looked up at Daryl with a half-smile.

"What?" he asked again, but less sharply this time.

"I was just wondering what you were like as a boy," she said.

He snorted. "Trouble is what I was," he said, turning his back on her so he could look out at the landscape.

She looked at his outline for a moment before sidling up to him. He was dirty. They both were. But something about the way he stood there in the dying light appealed to her. She tried to picture him younger, scrawny, without any scars or tattoos. She wondered what he was like growing up, what kinds of foods he ate, what games he played, what music he listened to.

"I mean it," she said as she stood next to him. "What were you like?"

He made that _pftt… _sound she'd heard so often before and he shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno," He said.

She was being too vague, she figured, so she zeroed in on one thing she knew he loved.

"What about that?" she asked, nodding to his bow slung across his tanned shoulder.

He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes just able to see the tip of it from that angle.

"What about it?" he asked.

"Who taught you to use it?"

"Merle did," he replied, looking back out over the grounds. "Don't know who taught him though. Sure as hell wasn't our Pa."

"What's it like?" she asked.

"What's what like?" he replied. He looked at her, confused.

"Hunting," she said simply.

"You know what hunting's like. I've seen you do it a hundred times by now." He said, incredulously.

"Not animals," she said, patiently. "I've killed plenty of Walkers but never an animal. You're the one that puts meat on our table. I just cook it." She smiled.

He regarded her for a moment, wondering. He could see it actually, in his mind; could see her standing quiet in the forest, bow taut and ready in her capable hands. In this vision he was standing behind her, steadying her, helping her aim just as his brother had helped him, except…it wasn't quite the same.

"Earth to Daryl," said Carol as she snapped her fingers in front of his face, giggling again.

He shook his head trying to clear his mind of where his brain had been going.

"You really…" he trailed off, shaking his head again. There were a dozen ways he could have finished that sentence and each one of them would have been true: _…annoy me, aggravate me, get under my skin, push my buttons, fascinate me…_

He settled for silence because it was what he knew best.

She watched him, gauging him. She could read him like a book by now. Knew all his moods and knew he was a lot of talk, like a bird ruffling its feathers and posturing. She knew when to stay away too but now was not one of those times. The corners of his mouth were turned up slightly and the skin at the corners of his eyes was crinkled. Inwardly, she knew, he was smiling.

"So tell me. What's it like? Hunting."

He let his mind drift back to his first real kill, his first clean one. It was a buck and it weighed in at just over two hundred pounds after they removed the organs. Took the two of them to haul it back to Merle's truck but to this day what he remembered most wasn't the meat or the cleaning or the gutting. It was that moment right before the kill where everything is silent and it feels like time's stopped. He swore the buck could see him through the brush, could sense his presence, maybe even smell him, but it was like it knew, like it was saying "It's okay. Go ahead. You've earned this."

"Deer are fucking majestic," he said, reverently, almost in a whisper.

She nodded, encouraging him to go on.

"It's like…they know when it's their time. And instead of being pussies about it they just look you right in the eye and say 'Go ahead. Do it. I ain't gonna run no more.' You gotta respect that. You know?" He asked as he turned to her.

She did know. Maybe more than he realized.

And he caught it, that look in her eyes. It all clicked into place. She knew exactly what he meant because she'd lived it. He used to judge her, used to wonder why she'd stayed with a man like that, her dead husband; a man that beat her, berated her, and maybe even raped her, but now, standing here with her in the near darkness he understood. She hadn't wanted to run anymore.

He remembered the time he'd thoughtlessly raised his own fist to her and how she hadn't flinched one bit, just stood there ready to take it. It wasn't cowardice that kept her feet planted firmly in place that night. It was bravery.

His vision from earlier solidified in his mind; the two of them standing in the woods, everything quiet, only a faint breeze to rustle the leaves. No Walkers in sight. No trouble. Just the two of them, hunting together. Her slight frame caged by his muscled one as he helps her with the bow. His lips at her ear, guiding her, telling her what to do.

He shifted, breaking the moment, looking back out into the night.

"Maybe I'll take you some time," he said as nonchalantly as he could. He fiddled with the toothbrush he'd been holding, twirled it back and forth in his fingers as he tried to concentrate on the ceaseless parade of Walkers just past the fence instead of on the woman next to him.

"I'd like that," said Carol. She laid a hand on his arm, just a brief touch really, before she headed down the stairs, but Daryl swore he could feel it all the rest of that night.


End file.
